Friday, May 06, 2011

Well

How do you get there from here?
The truth is you can’t even shed a tear.
Not, unless you have something particular to fear.
A loss perhaps that you held dear.

So dear in French is cher
And possibly you are aware,
That loss is quelque chose perdu,
Quelque chose. tres cher. perdu.,
Well, my dear, perhaps you weren’t aware…

Well, others fair as well,
Impossible to tell,
Just how much the number swells,
Perhaps a gypsy may foretell:
The answer's hidden deep within a well
Where the  harpies’ shadows dwell.
Guarded by a witch’s wicked spell
Or so, the gypsy might foretell,

Words forgotten in a pause,
Words that have no hidden cause,
Meaningless, and echoless,
Words for which there is no voice.
Words for which we have no words.
Words that must remain unheard.

Don’t think I have forsaken,
In the heart of the tear I found I’d awakened,
The wish for a wish that was long ago taken.
The heart can’t be broke, but the soul can be stolen.
And broken, I wonder, well, wonder just: well…
Where’s that confounded old gypsy well?
I thirst for its water, I thirst for its curse,
Down there I don’t think it could possibly be worse.
So why bother now, why bother at all; the fardels will get you,
If not, you’ll fall.